Inspiration presents itself as many a thing. The highs. The lows. Why not the contented mediocrity of now? Write, write, delight. If I want I can paint a memory or thought into readable existence....how well is yet to be deciphered. For instance here: this regular has a routine. A well-established routine of mushrooms [non-specialized effects], raspberrry dressings, and phrases laced with "sweetheart." Comfort, yet fear encases this practice of routine, habit....tradition? An inability to conjure new concepts? Most others embrace traditions so effortlessly that it renders my questioning a near abnormality. "It is your responsibility to rebel, to change," sir tells me, with love. And in this way, I have and I shall. Simply I remember my favorite things and don't feel so bad...yeah, Madre? Up, up, and away I come to you. Please forgive the absence knowing I've missed you terribly and think of you fondly and frequently. I shoulda called, shoulda written, shoulda been many a thing. Alas, I am as I am. Inept and incapable of the unreachable perfection. All the same. Branching and reaching out is the ultimate means for coming to terms with lack of said perfect existence and how much it be desired within another. Wouldn't identify as shallow, but at times feel low as tainted gallows. Rising. Learing. Phenoix and flame.SIDE silly. Me: "Base jumping...on the clock? Is that ok?" Boss: "Oh sure, cause it's highly likely you wouldn't survive which means no work comp payout." BRIlliant. New work places rock.
Nice to (not) meet you, Red Pants. Take care and prosper.
Off to another place entirely. A locale of indifference and comfort and newness. Yus. YES. Love yourselves. Always.
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